Bury me in the blue chiffon
by Kooshball
Summary: Klinger reflects on his attempts on getting out of the army. Short summary for a short fic. Leave a review, you know you want to...


_Koosh: Just something I wrote while I was meant to be studying for upcoming exams. Yep, another Klinger fic, but I thought I'd start expanding my writing a bit more and try something darker for once. Set sometime between Charles arriving and Radar leaving._

**Bury me in the Blue Chiffon**

It's strange to find out how desperate I was to get out of this place. I had always been scared of dying. When I first admitted that to Sidney Freedman, during my first few months here, he told me that was normal and perfectly sane to be scared of dying. That didn't stop with the section eight attempts, of course.

I tried it all. The dresses of course. Over a good year and a half, I had collected a great collection, though there were times I had to start again because they had been confiscated or traded for supplies. I tried flying out on a hang glider, which was quite stupid now that I think about it. I really should have built a plane out of supplies instead. I tried steering a boat down a river to the ocean, but I got caught. The number of times I went AWOL, I'm surprised they didn't court-marshal me.

Of course, some tried. Frank Burns and Margaret Houlihan talked to Henry Blake about me. Good old Henry. He never cared, just as long as I did my job. But that Frank Burns, he really didn't like me. Neither did Zale for that matter, the supplies sergeant. Maybe it was because they thought it was unpatriotic or weird. Maybe it was because they could never look half as good in the stuff I wore. I don't know, and don't really care any more. With Frank shipped home and Zale less bothersome since he was made to dig that latrine after he tried beating some nurse up (he thought it was another corpsman in drag; the nurse beat the living daylights out of him and never got charged), I don't get much talk about my clothes any more.

Not that I care about the dresses much now. They've lost their appeal. In fact, I have given up on getting out of here alive altogether, though Radar still seems to believe I could get out one of these days. With the fighting so close, sometimes it's hard to get to sleep at night.

I said I was scared of dying. Seems strange that I've turned to suicide attempts since. Laverne was a big part of that. It almost killed me to open that "Dear John" letter from her. And morale was never high here at camp to begin with. The green uniforms, the powdered food, being so far from home, it all started affecting me. I think all the failed section eight attempts hurt too. It all just started dragging me down into depression.

Someone noticed I didn't seem to be doing ok. Surprisingly, it was Charles. I don't know what to think about him. He's so high and mighty, so proper, but deep down, I think he's ok. Anyway, he seemed to notice before any of the others that something was wrong. He went to Potter, who came and saw me. Potter just thought it was another scam.

Until I took a scalpel and started slicing my wrists. How was I supposed to know you're meant to go up and down the arm, not sideways? Anyway, BJ found me in Pre-Op, bleeding pretty badly. They started worrying about me then. I was bandaged up, and they kept an eye on me for a few weeks.

Then the doctors grew lazy. They didn't watch the medication cupboard as closely as they should. Radar found me in my tent with a half empty bottle of pills in my hand. He raised the alarm pretty quick, and they pumped my stomach or whatever it is they do when you take too many pills. I don't know, I was unconscious at the time.

The others really became worried after that. They put more locks on everything, the supplies, and the gun cabinet, on anything I might use to hurt myself, really. They never left me alone, either. They tried talking to me, trying to get me to laugh and back to my "old self", as Igor put it once. Hawkeye was nominated as my personal jester, but that grew old real fast. He tries to be funny, but in my state, it was just annoying. I yelled a few times and hit out at him, so he soon stopped and left me alone.

I had always told people if anything happened to me, to bury me in the blue chiffon. I don't even know if I still have it. I may have traded it for a box of penicillin, I can't remember. But anyway, that's not important. I don't want to be buried in the blue chiffon anymore, maybe I never wanted to be. It was just something I said to look crazy. I don't want to be buried in army drab or Class A uniform or anything, either. I want to be buried in a normal, civilian suit. Of course, dying over here, that'll never happen. Damn army.

I had always been scared of dying here, and to prevent that happening, I've been trying to commit suicide. Sounds crazy, doesn't it? Well, you tell me how crazy it is when they find me in the minefield tomorrow morning.


End file.
